Most of us long to "Be" but when the path gets too costly, or steep, we take solace in what we "Have." Remove the trappings of what we own and then what is the sum of us?
They were the survivors, abandoned by the allies who swore to protect, in...
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Jhary sat in the midst of the gaily dressed crowd, precious instrument set in his hands and began to pay an upbeat and complex melody. Bach's Toccata. Usually he could lose himself in the cadence of his art, but not today. His head was down, an errant strand of brassy blond hair hanging in his eyes which were closed. All of his music remembered and played by rote.
The scent of a pig roast carried to him delicious on the cool air. Perhaps he would partake of it later? He tried to lose himself in the moment, to be someplace else, this spectacle he could no longer abide. Yet he must as his Master had commanded it, Jhary knew how these things worked, what he was and who he must be. The skilled musician would uphold the illusion, though his heart had returned to the darkness he had so sought to shake.
The bard looked up but briefly in-between his playing to glimpse Aurianne close by, he cast her a rueful smile. One that did not match the tune that was being plucked by his skillful and elegant fingers. She would leave tomorrow, and that thought saddened him further. The statuesque woman had been his only brightness in this place of brutality and human misery, and he did not know how he would fare in her absence.
We are all like water he thought, we ebb and flow our different ways, and we largely have no control of where the world will take us. Some cross our paths, some stay, some must leave... He sighed softly the mournful sound hidden by the strains of his music. Jhary uncharacteristically missed a note but covered the mistake skillfully, none of the untrained ears about him seemed to notice, nor did they glimpse the tears wetting his eyes.
Jhary loved joy and stories, he adored smiling faces, the innocence of children, beautiful women, and art. He was content to wander at will, taking his future by chance. Yet this place was no more than a parody of these things. He wondered how he would survive, surrounded by such misery?
He did not look up from his closed eyed playing, he would not witness the wanton waste, the bloodshed. Sometimes the loud roaring of the crowd would all but drown his lilting tune, however Jhary cared not. The music lie in his heart, and he was determined this day and every one after to lose himself in it. It was now all he had.
Aurianne fidgeted in the stands, though the fresh air felt good she was restless and wished wholeheartedly she could depart for the quietude of the indoors. She sat a small distance away in the stands from Master Jacques and his appalling visitor, who's sharp features were shrouded in black. She observed the short riding crop that he seemed to always carry tap the sides of his shining leather boots in a nervous rhythm. She could see no more than his aquiline nose and hard leering mouth beneath the brim of his Death's-head cap.
It was difficult to know what to make of him. Was his Nazi attire for show, did he believe in the doctrine of World War two Germany, or did he simply overcompensate? Could such a small statured man really be so dangerous? Did it look as though she may have a chance to overpower him and flee en route? How much of this man was a self styled image, and how much was real?
